The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds

by Siak Chin Yoke, Selina

  I put my face down on his chest and sobbed.

  32

  The first light of dawn streaked the skies around six thirty. I sent Li-Fei on her faithful two-wheeler to Siew Lan’s house to apprise her of our misfortune. While my maid was gone, a handful of neighbours – the ones who had been alerted by my plaintive calls through the night – arrived in our house, as did Yap Meng Seng. I will never forget the look on the old man’s face as he hobbled in: the shock in those wide-open eyes at the sight of what greeted him, shadowed by the remorse of a farewell unsaid to the little boy who had always been the first to greet him.

  I was in no mood to console the patriarch. I had lost my voice and was walking in a daze, as much from lack of sleep as from the suddenness of my son’s passing away. The emerging day and everything in it felt unreal. Shafts of sunlight poured in through an open window, washing the body of my son as he lay covered in a sheet on the barlay. I felt as if I were standing outside my own body, unable to think or plan or make a single decision, as numb as when I had received news of my husband’s demise ten years before.

  Seeing the state I was in, Meng Seng decided to act. He announced that he would go to Hume Street by car to search for a coffin and undertaker. Weng Yu insisted on accompanying him. They knew my preference for cremation, but when they arrived at the town’s main thoroughfare for funeral shops, they found the undertakers so overworked that they were left with little choice. Bodies were being crammed into whatever containers could be made in time, because the dead had to be buried or burnt quickly to reduce the chance of infection. The only thing the living could choose was the type of service – Hindu, Moslem or Buddhist/Taoist; everything else depended on where and when workers were available and what was humanly possible. We were so pressured that my little Weng Foo was buried at one thirty that same day inside a hastily made cardboard coffin like a pauper’s. ‘The best we could find,’ Weng Yu told me with tears streaming down his dimpled cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Mama.’

  When it came time, I nearly fainted. Siew Lan had to hold me throughout, and it was my little prince, Weng Yu, who held the hands of his brothers and sisters as we headed out. I barely remember my son being lowered into that child-sized plot in the Chinese cemetery off the Tambun Road.

  I was too distraught to even say goodbye properly; it was my daughters who sponged the boy, sprinkled him with scented Florida Water and dressed him in a suit. This remains one of my great regrets.

  For many weeks afterwards the atmosphere in our house remained muted. A silence descended, fed by grief.

  I wandered aimlessly between kitchen and outer hall, unable to rest yet incapable of much else. There were days when I could barely get out of bed. My second daughter, Hui Ying, took over the household. She managed it with Ah Hong’s help, and with Siew Lan’s too; whenever my friend visited, they would sit huddled in the kitchen, whispering to one another.

  Beliefs I had long held lay crumbling in the wake of Weng Foo’s demise. If Kuan Yin, his godmother, could not protect the boy, who could? Doubts about the medical treatment I had sought assailed me. These were spurred by Yap Meng Seng, who let slip that he thought his friend Dr Khong could have saved Weng Foo if he had been consulted earlier. ‘He was trained in Britain, and brilliant! Next time, why not see both a Chinese and Western doctor at the same time?’ the old man suggested. ‘Surely there is no harm in that.’ I could have pointed out that children were dying in Ipoh’s British-run hospitals every day, but I didn’t think of this till much later.

  My solemn mood affected everyone, including the children, who stopped fighting over petty things. Even my third daughter, Hui Lin, the best-natured of the brood, showed signs of strain; she continued practising English words with Hui Ying, but with noticeably less enthusiasm. All the boys, including Weng Yu, behaved with more consideration towards one another; no longer were there struggles for bathroom occupation in the morning. The two youngest, twelve and thirteen at the time, regretted the unkind words they had once used against their brother. With recompense no longer possible, they hesitated before opening their mouths, worried about what might come out.

  The deep lethargy into which I fell was broken only by necessity. The deaths in town ceased one day – as mysteriously as they had commenced – at which point we were forced to carry on with our lives. School resumed. Mr Ho-Lee at once asked to see Weng Yu in his office. While the fever raged, I had postponed telling my son what I really thought about sending him abroad. When Weng Yu returned home one afternoon with both eyes shining, I knew I was in for a delicate moment.

  It seemed his headmaster had received a response from friends in London, who had independently recommended the same educational institution. My son said the name of the place – a name longer and even more complicated than Se-Too-Wat’s. It specialised in science and engineering, exactly what Weng Yu was looking for. And the school was prepared to accept my son, provided he passed his upcoming examinations in mathematics and English.

  Weng Yu told me all this without catching breath, much as the night years ago when he had recited the story of the Princess Hang Li Po. When the boy eventually paused, I saw the animation in his face; he seemed truly happy for the first time in weeks. In spite of my own poor spirits, I felt a surge of anticipation and set aside the thoughts about money which were already filling me with dread.

  Weng Yu told me that the course would last five years. Yet when I asked about costs, he became vague, as if these were a mere afterthought. I recalled my previous misgivings about Weng Yu’s attitude towards money, so desultory, as if he had a right to the sums involved and did not need to bother. But I didn’t confide my fears to anyone, because I could only have told Siew Lan, and I did not want her to know about our financial worries.

  Casting doubt aside, I visited Mr Ho-Lee at the earliest opportunity. I was shocked by the headmaster’s appearance; he had aged so much in the intervening weeks of crisis that I could scarcely believe this haggard man with the hollow cheeks was the same one I had spoken to only months previously. His hairline had receded, and even his ears drooped. ‘We lost many boys,’ he told me in a sad voice. ‘Such a waste of life . . . Anyway, Peng Choon Soh, good news about Weng Yu, isn’t it?’ At the mention of my son, Mr Ho-Lee cheered up. He rose from his chair, carrying his lumbering frame towards a filing cabinet, from where he retrieved a wad of papers. When he sat down again, I saw that the kindly smile which had once lit up his face was still intact.

  ‘I must know how much, Mr Ho-Lee,’ I said.

  ‘Of course, of course!’ the headmaster replied, adding with a puzzled look, ‘Weng Yu didn’t tell you? I gave the boy all the information.’

  ‘No,’ I said cautiously. ‘He not sure . . . about anything like that.’

  ‘Ai-yahh, these young people!’ The headmaster saw my concern but laughed it off, proceeding instead to silently add up a series of figures on his papers.

  ‘The total cost per month, Peng Choon Soh, is around fourteen pounds. For everything – tuition, books, lodging, transport – but there would be nothing left over. So if your son wanted to go to the cinema, for example, it wouldn’t be possible.’

  My heart sank at the new number: it came to two pounds more than I had been expecting, which would mean having to find another eighteen, maybe even twenty, dollars a month. I could not see how we would raise the funds when we hadn’t even counted the cost of passage or warm clothing for my boy. The uncertainty must have been obvious in my face, because Mr Ho-Lee immediately asked, ‘You want time to think-moh, Peng Choon Soh?’

  I nodded. ‘Lot of money-ah. Must carefully think,’ I said before adding, ‘You very good,’ to which Mr Ho-Lee merely gave a wave of his large hand. When we parted, the smile he flashed, so broad and wide, brought wrinkles to the sides of his eyes.

  ‘When you’re ready, let me know. We shouldn’t delay for too long.’

  Over the next days the spring in Weng Yu’s step told me that my son had already begun imagining himself in
London. When Siew Lan burst into our house, grinning, it was to chide me on my devilish secrecy: ‘Ay! How come you no tell me you send your son to England?’ It seemed my little prince had gone to see the white devil, to whom he had poured out his heart; over many hours they had spoken of London and little else. There could be no turning back. I hurried to meet with Yap Meng Seng, showing up one morning after my helpers had finished kueh preparations. The patriarch listened patiently, coffee cup in hand, while the numbers tumbled out of my mouth.

  ‘One hundred and twenty, one hundred and thirty dollars even. So much money-ah! Month-month also need. What to do? I calculate already; I think I can support my son. Just enough-lah. We got rubber estates, also got rental . . . but must economise. Oh, you maybe not know . . . my late husband leave us rubber smallholdings, also give three shophouses in Old Town. We have good tenants. But much risk-lah!’

  My words trickled into the air alongside beads of anxiety. I paused before continuing. ‘Price of rubber fall that time, like few years ago, what I do? Then tenant no pay, also what I do? Also,’ I added, my mind racing, ‘ticket still not counted, warm clothes also not counted. Then he fall sick, what I do? England is very expensive.’

  Everything poured out in a deluge, but I couldn’t stop myself. Meng Seng sat with a bemused expression on his face. When I stopped talking, he told me decisively, as if he had long expected my visit, ‘Chye Hoon, have no worries. I will pay his two-way passage and get him warm clothing. I think you should ask Wai Man and Hui Fang if they can spare something each month – my son has just been given a raise, and they may be able to contribute to contingencies. The Weng Yu Project is worthwhile, and I want to help.’ Raising his voice, the patriarch said, ‘You have my promise that any time there is a shortfall – and I mean any time – either because the price of rubber falls, or if one of your tenants doesn’t pay rent, whatever the reason I will make up the shortfall.’

  His last pronouncement brought a lump to my throat. But I held the tears back, because any show of emotion would have embarrassed the patriarch. Looking directly into his eyes for a long minute, I said softly, ‘Meng Seng-ah, so kind of you. Emergency only we use your money.’

  The old man cleared his throat. ‘We are family now,’ he replied gruffly. ‘I have more than enough. I want to give the boy the chance he deserves.’

  Thereafter Mr Ho-Lee proceeded with a formal application to the science college and also booked a bed in a youth hostel – a safe place, he assured me. ‘This is very exciting, Peng Choon Soh!’ the headmaster said, his moustache curving into a smile. ‘Good for Ipoh-lah.’

  Despite my qualms I could not help but be a little infected by everyone’s enthusiasm. My son, a British-trained engineer! His father would have been so proud.

  33

  The birth of my first grandchild marked a turning point in our lives. I wish I could say that I was present at his birth, but alas Hui Fang chose to have her baby in Taiping, inside a hospital.

  When I heard about my daughter’s decision, I was livid. I was sure it had been the patriarch’s idea. Though my faith in traditional medicine had been bruised when Weng Foo passed away, the Western-trained doctor had not saved him either. In any case, babies were different: I could see no reason for not having them in the comfort of one’s own home. I had once had the misfortune of stepping into a hospital when I visited a sick Nyonya who was one of my customers, and I couldn’t imagine the indignity of lying in such a large room among strangers, being barked at by a doctor, a man, who told you to push . . . pu-u-sh . . . without ever conceivably knowing what your pain must feel like.

  It was during one of their monthly visits to Ipoh that my daughter told me she was not coming home for the birth. I was surprised but not unduly concerned. ‘Taiping sure to have good bidan,’ I said. ‘You want me go to Kampong Laxamana to ask?’

  Looking away, Hui Fang replied in a timid voice, ‘Mama, we . . . we go enter into a hospital.’

  I was at a loss for words. ‘You really want like that-ah?’ I finally asked.

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ my daughter replied, relieved that an outburst had been avoided.

  ‘So, Wai Man also want like that?’ Hui Fang nodded, taking care to repeat that she too preferred to be in a hospital. Continuing to prod the girl, I eventually prised the admission out of her that the initiative had been her husband’s, and that her father-in-law had played a role.

  The patriarch would have to be tackled. To make sure he was in a good mood, I fed Meng Seng first. Only when we were sipping tea did I ask outright, ‘Hui Fang go enter into hospital to deliver her baby your idea-ah?’

  A shadow of surprise flickered across the old man’s face. He seemed torn between stamping his foot and justifying his interference. But Meng Seng never lied. He nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said a little hesitantly before launching into a robust answer. ‘Look, Chye Hoon, I know you want the best for your daughter. Me too. Taiping General Hospital is one of the best in this country. It has modern equipment. That’s why I told her to go there.’

  From my stiff face, the patriarch knew what was to come.

  ‘Meng Seng, you know I have ten children,’ I began, ‘all born at home . . . with a bidan, each one also healthy. At home for baby good, for mother also good. Hospital like . . . like . . .’ At that point I left the sentence unfinished, struggling to describe the repugnance I felt for hospital rooms.

  The patriarch took the opportunity to barge in. ‘If I may say so, Chye Hoon, you were just lucky. Many women die, you know.’ The man sat there looking so smug that all I wanted to do was shake him. Because I couldn’t, I did the next best thing – which was to scream.

  ‘You not know . . . give birth . . . like what!’ I yelled so loudly that Ah Hong peeped through the doorway. ‘My own mother also never want baby come out in hospital. They . . . they . . . evil,’ I finally said, unable to find a better word. It’s unfortunate that what emerged from my mouth in those few minutes came from the heart, not my head, because it gave the patriarch an excuse to disregard my words as hysterical ranting. I knew what I wanted to say, but the feelings were impossible to describe using any language I’d been taught. As a result Meng Seng simply looked at me with kindly eyes, as if I were a child, until I became so frustrated that I told him I needed to go to bed.

  Realising the futility of trying to change the patriarch’s mind, I found out as much as I could about hospital births. Siew Lan, despite her other attempts at modernity, had also had both her children at home and shared my scepticism about babies born in hospitals. We heard how, once the infant came out and the doctor had cut the cord, a nurse would remove the baby from its mother and put it into another room! This sounded so cruel that I couldn’t believe it really happened, until one of our friends swore it was true.

  When I listened to such stories, I was filled with despair. I offered to be with my daughter in Taiping during her eighth month, but the couple insisted that would not be necessary. The result was that I didn’t witness the coming into this world of my first grandchild, a lovely boy called Choong Meng. I wasn’t there to cradle him, shower his face with kisses or hear his earliest cries, a disappointment I shall always carry in this life. I did not see my grandson until he was ten days old; he came swaddled in cloth, a sleeping infant with a snub nose and tiny black hairs on an otherwise bald crown. Even at that tender age Choong Meng gave the impression of severity, thanks to lips which pouted naturally downwards and a prominent bottom lip hanging loose.

  Looking at the little mite, I felt a pang at the way our world was changing. We elders were becoming less involved in the lives of our children, less valued, our wisdom and experience considered irrelevant. I wondered what Choong Meng would wish to learn from me in the future. Possibly nothing; my grandson would grow up to regard me as a fool – ignorant, slow and incapable of teaching him. I didn’t like what was happening, but there was little I could do to turn the clock back.

  Yet the very fact of his presence brought new vigour to m
y weary bones. It was an awakening, like a miracle.

  I thought often of my grandson and was desperate for his parents’ visits to Ipoh. I would have travelled the eighty miles to Taiping had it not been for Weng Yu’s imminent examinations and departure for England. Already dreading my eldest son’s five-year absence, I was torn between spending every remaining minute with Weng Yu and seeing more of my grandson, a physical impossibility unless I could be in two places at once.

  Fortunately my daughter realised how important my grandchild’s one-month celebration would be to me. She and her husband made a special trip, giving me the chance to fetch the tortoise-shaped angkoo moulds from the back of our tiny pantry, to clean them inside out and to place all ten wood blocks on the kitchen table in readiness for a heroic culinary session. We had our hands full that day: with my younger girls, two of their brothers and the servants in tow, we made the traditional dishes, which turned our table into a riot of colour. There was saffron-seasoned turmeric rice and red Nyonya chicken curry, also bowls of hard-boiled eggs, their shells dyed pink for cheer, and for sweetness orange-red angkoo, the most famous of our kueh.

  After the kueh were steamed, we arranged them inside the beautifully lacquered sia nah that Wai Man placed on the passenger seat of his car. He spent no more than an hour driving the kueh round to the houses of friends and family. I marvelled at the speed of change: not twenty years before, Peng Choon had tied the lacquered containers with strong rope to the ends of a wooden pole and hauled them all over town. The task had taken him more than one evening, yet here was my son-in-law delivering the same to even more houses, without so much as a drop of sweat on his brow.